Generalities
by vanillavinegar
Summary: 100 fics written for the LJ comm 'Fanfic100', claim: General Series, featuring a variety of characters and situations. Latest prompt: Orange. In which Cain's dignity is shredded and Merry gets a new pet.
1. Green

**Title** One For the Master  
**Author**: vanillavinegar  
**Prompt: **014 – Green.  
**Rating:** PG for this particular prompt (for mention of death/murder)  
**Author's Notes/Disclaimer:** _Count Cain_ and all associated characters, settings, etc., belongs to Yuki Kaori-sensei, as does the plot of _Black Sheep_ itself. Ally is the maid who appears in that chapter. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. This is my first story for the LJ fic-community Fanfic100 (my claim is 'General Series') and I'm really looking forward to doing the rest of the prompts!

Write a review, get a reply from the author – promise. :D

* * *

From early childhood, something Cain could never stand was having his possessions taken away. 

He blamed this, as he did so many other quirks of his personality, on Alexis; as with many other quirks of his personality, he had good reason. His father had taken pleasure in waiting until Cain's fondness for something – a toy, perhaps, or a pet – had reached its greatest extent, then cruelly snatching it away (often by destroying or killing it).

This system stayed firmly in place for years, until Riff came along. Until Cain killed his father in self-defense. Until Riff promised that he would stay by Cain's side always.

Cain therefore came to regard Riff, naturally, as his own; but, unlike the toys and pets of childhood, Riff would not leave. Riff was better than these objects in many other ways, as well; for one, he was his own person, with his own personality and thoughts and ideas – Cain could interact with him on a different level than with an inanimate plaything or a non-sentient being. Although he had never had one before, Cain found in Riff a friend, and he valued Riff greatly.

When he first noticed Siobhan's attraction to his newly appointed butler, then, Cain became worried. He watched Stein escort her down the hall as Riff went in the opposite direction, and he noted how her eyes followed Riff's retreating form. His own eyes narrowed. What did she mean by it?

Soon, the gossip spread through the staff and even to his anxious ears. Cain was good at being small and unnoticed when he was curious about a matter, and even better at asking the right questions to make someone unwittingly give him the answers for which he was searching. It was as he had feared: Siobhan was chasing Riff. Only, Riff had not responded to her. Being a gentleman, he could not rebuff her rudely; however, nor was he encouraging her. Cain ignored the idiotic notion that Riff did not return her affections because of her background – Riff spoke French, after all, so the language barrier was not an issue. And yet, because she _was_ French – and because she was trying to take Riff away – Cain came to regard her as an enemy.

His dread ripened into irritation; his irritation, naturally, blossomed into anger; so when Riff was helping him dress the next morning and a pair of gossiping maids happened to walk by Cain's room, giggling loudly enough for both of them to hear, he could not restrain his temper. He accused Riff (who did not deserve it, really) of wanting to leave his menial position as a mere servant to elope with this woman who was clearly attracted to him. Then he snapped that it wouldn't matter to him if Riff _did_ leave – he could return to the way he had always lived before Riff. Riff glanced up at him, hurt shining in his eyes and a question plain on his lips, but Cain ignored both and sprinted from the room, anger and fresh guilt burning in his breast. He heard Riff call after him and ignored that, too. Instead, he spent the day wandering the grounds, climbing trees too high for Riff to follow when he saw his butler looking for him, and thinking over what he could do.

There were two solutions, as he saw it: disregard the problem of Siobhan and hope Riff would remain aloof as ever or – the more appealing yet more difficult option – get rid of Siobhan.

The next day, he had still not yet decided when he saw Siobhan trailing after Riff in the gardens. He thought Riff might be looking for him again; Cain had dressed himself and left his room before the time Riff generally woke him, even now wanting to avoid the wounded queries Riff would be certain to ask him. Riff made a valiant effort to ignore her, but when she did not relent he finally turned and demanded to know why she was following him and not at work. For answer, she kissed him.

Cain's eyes narrowed.

He made his decision.

He saw the surprise and embarrassment on Riff's face when Cain suddenly appeared out of seemingly nowhere to appoint him keeper of the Hargreaves' treasure vault. He saw, too, the avarice that flared briefly in Siobhan's eyes as she watched them walk away. Inwardly, he smirked – the hook had been baited; now all that was left was to cast the line and wait for bites.

After showing Riff the chamber and giving him all of the necessary information, Cain instructed him to go about his usual duties. Riff's face told him clearly that, in his mind, their conversation was not finished, but Cain answered by utilizing his most powerful weapon: his eyes.

Though his odd, golden-green eyes were his least favorite aspects of his physical appearance (and that included the scars which even now, months after his last beating, lingered on his back), Cain had to admit (if only to himself) that they had their uses. After a minute's endurance with Cain's flat-eyed stare, Riff looked away and left for the main house, though the line of his back showed his obvious displeasure. Cain was impressed; Riff was able to withstand his gaze longer than anyone he had ever met, and soon Cain was certain it would not faze him at all. For the moment, however, he had his own preparations to make.

'Know thy enemy' was the rule he now planned to follow.

His first and best source of information was, of course, the staff. Besides knowing the most about the household, the maids in particular were a gossipy lot, and he knew exactly how to wring anything of value from them without any suspicions being roused. He began to casually speak to Ally, one of the newer and younger maids, and thus also one of his favorites. She had never known his father nor how Cain was treated under Alexis' thumb and, as such, regarded him as the poor little orphaned lad who had been made an earl so young. He used his youthful face to his full advantage, encouraging her to confide in him and tell him more about his employees.

She freely told him several important points: Siobhan was French (which he had already known); she spoke French and very little English, but could understand spoken English fairly well (he had guessed as much); she was illiterate, coming from a poor family who farmed outside of Paris (he had not been aware of this); and, most helpful of all, she and Stein had been seen to converse for long periods of time (in French, naturally).

Cain's smile upon leaving Ally was like that of the cat that had had both the cream and the canary.

By the night Siobhan died, Cain had had time to reflect on what he had learned, and had come to a conclusion: as content as he would be to place the full blame on Siobhan, she was not clever enough to come up with such a plan. He had suspicions as to who her accomplice had been, and Stein's actions that night in the treasure chamber confirmed them. As he had speculated, Stein and Siobhan had made a plot to disgrace the new young butler, who had taken the position Stein had assumed he would earn. When Riff was dismissed for unbecoming conduct (as well, doubtless, as Siobhan, though she couldn't have guessed that), Stein would gain the title he felt was rightfully his. Siobhan, however, had compromised their plan and got herself killed; Stein had to think on his feet, and in doing so he had made a costly mistake.

Cain accused him of what he knew Stein had and had not done; Stein was too overcome with fury over being outwitted that he hadn't time to protest before being hauled to Scotland Yard under murder charges. Slowly, the underground room emptied, until only he and Riff remained. He could feel Riff's stare on him, his valet still taken aback by being accused and exonerated in almost the same moment.

Cain suppressed a shiver, newly aware of the chill in the dungeon-like room now that the excitement had ended. He considered telling Riff the truth about Siobhan's death but decided against it, unsure how the older man would take the information at this delicate point in their relationship. Instead, he made a flippant declaration about how Riff must be disappointed not to be able to leave the manor now that the woman who had loved him was dead. He watched Riff move toward him out of the corner of his eye and barely held in a shocked movement as he felt Riff's warm robe being wrapped around his shoulders. He was startled again as he heard Riff's reply: that he belonged nowhere other than by Cain's side. He felt warmth, not only from the robe, fill him at these words. Riff had not been taken away. He was not going to leave. He had promised to stay with him, and he had passed the first test of his loyalty with honors.

Cain could not voice any of this to his butler. Instead, he turned and swept from the room, trusting Riff to close the hidden entrance, which he did, and then he followed patiently at Cain's heels to his bedroom. Cain allowed Riff to stoke the fire and make certain warming pads were placed beneath his mattress, knowing that the chill in the treasure chamber had still not completely deserted his body. He crept into bed and was asleep swiftly, the trials and toils of the past few days catching up to him.

Riff stared at his sleeping master, gratitude and astonishment still apparent in his gaze. "Thank you, sir," he whispered again into the night, before leaving for his own rest, careful to close the door silently behind him.

END (of this chapter; more to come!)


	2. Red

**Title:** In the Red  
**Author**: vanillavinegar  
**Prompt: **011 – Red. (2/100)  
**Rating: **PG for this particular prompt (for mention of violence)  
**Author's Notes/Disclaimer:** _Count Cain_ and all associated characters, settings, etc., belongs to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. The quote from Alexis comes from 'The Sound of a Boy Hatching', _The Cain Saga_ Volume 2, over which I claim no ownership. I know the Riff here isn't quite the Riff of _Godchild_ Volume 6 – so let's just pretend he's having a 'nice' day. One day I will post something not based on the color prompts – but for now, enjoy a series of not-quite-drabbles for 'red'. Thanks to everyone who read the last one, and special thanks to Sanguinary Tears for reviewing! 

Write a review, get a reply from the author – promise. :D

* * *

When Cain thinks of the color red, he sees the blood dripping from Merediana's self-inflicted wound. He sees the darker, already dry blood sticking to Emeline's slit throat. He sees the blood pooling beneath Aunt Augusta's body as she breathes her last. He sees Riff's jacket darken with blood from the bullet that should have hit Cain himself. He sees the fine trail of blood that leaked from his father's mouth as he snarled the words that have hounded Cain for half a decade (_"You will die alone and unloved!")_. 

Cain's hands are stained with the blood of those he has loved and those he hasn't, yet sometimes he's unsure which haunts him more.

* * *

Riff remembers that the illustrations in introductory medical textbooks always colored the organs in diverse bold shades, as if to make the differences among them clear. Later on, the textbooks became more anatomically correct, as he found at his first autopsy. Several members of his class, he recalls, turned green or otherwise expressed discomfort at the sights and smells, but he had observed with a dispassionate, clinical eye which drew praise from his professors and curious looks from his peers. 

It wasn't until later in the privacy of his own apartment, while he cleaned the splatter from his overcoat, that Riff was nearly sick at the memory of dark, deoxidized blood and horribly pale organs.

_

* * *

_

When reminded of the color red, Merry thinks fondly of the day her brother, in one of his uncharacteristically puerile moods, accompanied her to the orchard, where they snuck into the cherry trees as though they were thieves, stealthily picking the most red-ripe ones and gathering them in their pockets. Then, with many furtive glances toward the house, they crept up an old elm (perfect for lazing about in) and proceeded to devour their spoils as quickly and enjoyably as they could, sharing and hoarding with equal abandon. Riff had found them there as twilight fell, Merry dozing in Cain's lap while he swung his legs from a branch and whistled Beethoven through lips sticky with cherry juice.

END


	3. School

**Title:** Procrastination  
**Author**: vanillavinegar  
**Prompt: **088 – School. (3/100)  
**Rating:**G for this particular prompt (it'll probably give you a sugar rush, seriously)  
**Author's Notes/Disclaimer:** _Count Cain_ and all associated characters, settings, etc., belongs to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. Look, a prompt that's not a color! I have nothing to say about this fic, except 'Poor beleaguered Riff'. :D Thanks to everyone who read the last one, and special thanks to Sanguinary Tears for reviewing!

Write a review, get a reply from the author – promise. :D

* * *

"Riff, how old are you?"

"…Now, sir, you know it's not polite to ask people such personal questions."

"But I'm not asking _people_, I'm asking _you_."

"I am twenty-four, Master Cain, as you ought to know, for I'm only a decade-and-a-year older than you are."

"But that _is_ very old!"

"…"

"You must be as old as Uncle Neil!"

"No, sir."

"How old is Uncle Neil?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir."

"Wh—"

"And you are _not_ to ask him."

"Because it's not polite?"

"Yes, sir."

"But then how do you know you're not as old as he is?"

"…Sir, are you finished with your lessons?"

"…No."

A pause.

"Riff, did _you_ like maths when you were in school?"

"…I fail to see how these questions are helping you finish your work, sir."

"Are you avoiding the question, Riff?"

"Of course not, sir!"

A giggle. "You _are_! I suppose that's a no, then. Which subjects did you like best, Riff?"

"…Literature, sir."

"Why?"

"Because we read _quietly_. Sir."

"Did you have a private tutor, or–?"

"Sir…"

"All right, Riff. I'll do my work. But—" green-gold eyes reflect the lamplight with wicked humor, "when I'm done, you have to answer _all_ my questions."

"Of course, sir."

END


	4. Sight

**Title:** Rest for the Weary  
**Author**: vanillavinegar  
**Prompt: **040 – Sight. (4/100)  
**Rating:**G for this particular prompt (despite minor angst)  
**Author's Notes/Disclaimer:** _Count Cain_ and all associated characters, settings, etc., belongs to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. Ally, who is apparently one of my favorite one-bit characters, is the maid from _Black Sheep_, but her back story is created by me. Cain here is pretty young - not yet fourteen - by the way. Thanks to everyone who read the last one, and special thanks to Sanguinary Tears for reviewing! (I've been replying to you via - do let me know if you haven't been getting my replies!) :)

Write a review, get a reply from the author – promise. :D

* * *

When Cain woke from half-remembered nightmares of solitude and hopelessness, his first instinct was to leap from his bed and run for the one person who could chase away such fears. But leaving his bed would plunge him into the darkness which had enclosed his dreams, and Cain shrank from that option as others would from a vial of arsenic. Instead, he sat straight up in his bed and groped along the wall above his headrest, fingers skidding along the wall until they reached what he had been seeking. He gave the braided cord two short jerks and released it, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes to keep out the darkness and its unknown inhabitants.

The cord ran up to the ceiling of Cain's bedroom, where it passed through a small opening in the wall; it then ran along the top of the wall of Cain's sitting room and the hallway before entering Riff's room through a similar hole. The cord – and the bell it was attached to in Riff's room – had been an idea (neither could recall whose) from half a year ago, when Cain had not yet turned thirteen and was still plagued by dreams mixed with horrifying memory. Since it had scandalized the maids and other servants awake and about the house at night to see their master, clad only in a nightshirt, wandering the halls to his valet's room when he ought to have been asleep, Riff had rigged the cord so he would know when he was needed and could act accordingly (for some reason, the butler wandering the halls was not nearly as alarming as the young earl). The other servants pretended not to notice the cord nor to know of its purpose, and few enough others went so deep into the living quarters of the Earl of Hargreaves, and fewer still saw the cord, placed high along the wall and of nearly the same color. Those who did see it did not know what it was for, but generally chalked it up to yet another of the peculiarities surrounding the young lord.

Cain lifted his head from the cool wall. Riff was not there. Normally he did not take half this long. Squelching fears of isolation born of his dreams, he pushed the covers back and eased down to the floor, stifling a sigh of relief when nothing attacked his bare feet. He shook his head at his own foolishness; he was too old and too knowledgeable to fear the dark. He pushed open the door separating his sleeping chamber from his private sitting room and hesitated, turning back to grab his bathrobe so as not to startle the maids per his usual wont. He reflected on lighting a lantern from the banked embers of the fire but decided against it; Riff's room was not too far from his own. Perhaps the cord had frayed and the bell had never rung…

Cain pulled his robe more snugly against himself as he entered the hallway, but though the lamps were lit no one was there. Relieved, he ghosted along the hallway quickly until he reached the door he sought. He knocked twice in a peremptory manner before opening the door without waiting for a reply. Blinking to adjust his eyes to the dark, he glanced around the room, seeking his absent valet at the desk, on the bed, on the floor.

The room was empty.

Cain's eyebrows drew down in consternation and then flew up in surprise at a shocked voice from behind him. "Earl Hargreaves!"

He whirled to stare up at the wide eyes of one of the maids. _Ally_, he remembered, one of those who had been hired after his father's death and, as such, knew him only as the poor young orphaned earl. He recalled her as being particularly motherly and kind towards him, due to his close proximity in age to her only brother, and he was pleased that it had not been the head housekeeper who had found him, as she would certainly have shown no patience for his nighttime peregrinations.

"Hullo," he said calmly, as if meeting her so in Riff's vacant room were routine, "Where's Riff?"

Ally lowered her hand from her mouth and peeked behind him. "Mister Raffit is not in his room?" she questioned deferentially, and Cain felt a sudden surge of appreciation. She was not going to ask what he had been doing. He shook his head. "Oh. Then he must be in his accounting room."

"His accounting room?" Cain repeated in bewilderment. He had never heard of such a place.

She bobbed a respectful curtsy to him. "Beggin' your pardon, sir. That's just what the staff calls it. It's really _your_ room, sir, that Mister Raffit uses when he's tallying up the books for the records and whatnot – the staff's pay and such."

Cain blinked. That Riff would have such a chamber made sense, of course – he had merely never considered the fact that, in addition to his duties as Cain's personal servant, Riff also had duties to the household staff. At least Cain knew that Riff was still in the house, that he was not gone, that Cain was not alone as the dreams had tried to tell him—

He shook his head, not caring what Ally made of the gesture. "Where—" he cleared his throat. "Where is this room? Can you take me?" he added as an afterthought, since she had a lantern and he had none.

"Oh," Ally hesitated and glanced down the hallway. Curious, Cain peered out of the door as well, but it was as empty as before. He looked at her inquisitively. "I'm really not allowed to go outside the area I'm to clean, my lord," she murmured as if embarrassed. Cain gave her his most aristocratic look and she glanced at the floor, abashed. "But I suppose it would be all right, seeing as it's for you, sir."

Cain nodded slowly and resolutely. "It is," he agreed, "and if the housekeeper comes along—" she looked back up, obviously surprised he had known what she feared "—I shall let her know you have my express permission to be leaving your area." He stuck out his elbow haughtily and she stared at him, uncomprehending. He sighed, seized her arm, wrapped it about his own, and swept as regally down the hall as he could, considering that he was in a robe, not a suit, and there was a confused maid holding a lantern clinging to his arm, not a well-dressed young noblewoman. But the look Ally gave him out of the corner of her eyes, both admiring and questioning, made him feel older and infinitely more mature. Inwardly, he grinned with pleasure; one could get used to this feeling.

He felt smug even when Ally had to tug at his arm to lead him into the servants' stairwell. "Beggin' your pardon, sir," she said again as she took him down two flights of stairs (they had had to drop arms for this part), "but this is the only way I know to Mister Raffit's room."

When they reached the correct floor, Cain seized her arm again and continued his stately stride until he could see an open door with light spilling out of it. They stopped. "There's his room, sir," said Ally, nodding towards it.

Cain patted her arm as he released it. "Thank you, Ally," he said gravely, and she blushed and ducked her head. "Remember – if you see the housekeeper, tell her you're on my orders. Good night." He nodded at her and strolled smoothly toward Riff's room. _Oh yes_, he thought to himself with a small smirk, _women staring and blushing. One certainly could become accustomed to this._

He cleared his thoughts of women and let his features settle into a frown as he neared the door. Meeting Ally so unexpectedly had allowed him to ignore the fears that had flooded him when he saw Riff's empty room, and his fear had stagnated somewhat into anger. Why was Riff not where he should have been when Cain wanted him? Didn't he know what Cain would think when he found his room empty? Why was he—

Then Cain crossed into the rectangle of light flowing from the door to Riff's 'accounting room' and froze.

The room was as he would likely have imagined it: bookcases stacked with notebooks, labeled in Riff's deliberate hand ("September through November Finances" proclaimed one); a fire in the hearth slowly dying to embers; and, within easy reach of the shelved notebooks, a desk piled with papers and books. And on that desk, head pillowed on a sheath of papers, hand still loosely holding a pen, quite deeply asleep, was Riff.

Cain let out a breath and leaned against the doorframe, lips curving into a very slight smile. He had never seen his butler look so… casual. He had seen Riff sleeping before, but only in short catnaps or in Riff's own bed. Now, with his jacket folded neatly over the back of the chair he slumped in and his tie carelessly coiled on an open ledger, Cain could believe that there really had once been a time when Riff had not been his stoic valet. He allowed himself a moment to smile fondly and indulgently at the older man before striding over to the chair to shake him awake. Riff would sleep much better in his own room, and not strain his back and neck besides.

"Riff," he said firmly. "Riff, wake up."

Riff jerked slightly before his eyes slowly blinked open. He stared at Cain without comprehension, eyes still clouded with sleep. Cain could tell the moment he woke up, because the blue eyes suddenly sharpened, then widened in horror. "Master—oof," he grunted as he tried to leap from the chair without pushing it away from the desk. Cain winced in sympathy and bit the inside of his cheek to stave off inappropriate laughter. "Master Cain," Riff finally managed to gasp, trying to surreptitiously straighten his shirt and massage his knees at the same time. He glanced ruefully at the tie on his desk before evidently giving up his appearance as a lost cause. "Sir, what are you doing here? You ought to be in bed…"

"Looking for you, of course," Cain replied smartly. "I must say, I'm surprised you managed to keep this place a secret from me for so long. I never would have found you without Ally's help." Riff appeared tired, bewildered, and greatly at a loss for words, much to Cain's amusement. He tugged at Riff's shirtsleeve, knowing how that annoyed him, and said cheerfully, "Come now, Riff, time for all good butlers to be asleep – comfortably in their own beds, _if_ you please."

"Ah – but sir—" Riff attempted before Cain cut him off.

"No, no, you're not going back to your dratted papers. They've taken up quite enough of your time tonight as it is. _You_ are to bed, and then I am, as well."

Riff finally allowed his master to tug him over to the fireplace to bank the coals and then out of the room altogether, making their way back up the servants' stairs in a rather odd procession that no one was around to appreciate. But the butler put his foot down when they reached Cain's room, dead-set against going to bed before his master was tucked into his own. Cain eyed him suspiciously until Riff, with an almost palpable sense of propriety, promised that he would go immediately to his own rest once he saw his master settled. Then Cain happily permitted himself to be nestled contentedly into the previously abandoned covers of his four-poster. With heavy eyes, he watched Riff stoke the fireplace to a more warming temperature but fell asleep before his valet could leave.

Riff paused at the door to his master's room, his own eyes weary but affectionate. "Good night, sir," he whispered to the still air as he shut the door behind him.

Cain had no more nightmares that night.

END


	5. Too Much

**Title:** Three Things Cain Doesn't Regret (and One He Does)  
**Author**: vanillavinegar  
**Prompt: **033 – Too Much. (5/100)  
**Rating:**PG for this particular prompt (for violence)  
**Author's Notes/Disclaimer:** _Count Cain_ and all associated characters, settings, etc., belongs to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. Three of these are based on actual moments in the manga - one is not. Blatant spoilers for _Godchild_ Book 6 (and implied for Book 7) in the fourth drabble - don't read if you don't know/don't want to know - the others are spoiler-free. :) I'm so sorry this took so long, but I haven't had the Internet, which makes updating nigh impossible. But I may post another fic before next Friday, if I can, in apology. Thanks to everyone who read the last one, and special thanks to Sanguinary Tears and Absynthe (sorry I can't reply to your review, since it's anonymous, but thanks so much for your kind words!) for reviewing!

Write a review, get a reply from the author – promise. :D

* * *

The first time he kills – the first time he _thinks_ he kills – he does it out of self-preservation. But not out of revenge. His first wish is to inform himself of his own danger – adding the poison to his father's pipe is, perhaps, rash, but also necessary. If his father fails to kill him with arsenic in his tea, he won't just give up, clap him heartily on the back, and announce a truce. No. Keeping himself alive is one thing… but he must be thorough. 

(It isn't until his father threatens to shoot Riff that Cain feels truly wrathful.)

* * *

The first time he _really_ kills – even if his hands are only soiled indirectly – it is solely for revenge. After his parents, a distant cousin trying, however half-heartedly, to kill him should be less surprising… and painful. But when he sees his friend murdered and realizes that it should have been _he_ who died, he knows he cannot let it go without retribution. His plan is formulated quickly, but it works all the same. He scares the daylights out of Riff, but after he explains Riff understands, as he always does. 

(Hurting him is one thing… his friends, another entirely.)

* * *

The first time he shoots his new gun – the first time his hands, and his alone, are bloodied – he does not miss. The man is still stunned at being shot by a child, even as his knife drops and he falls backward almost slowly. Then Riff is running toward him, shouting in fear, and the blood is pooling beneath the man – beneath the _body_ – and the gun barrel is still smoking and his hand isn't trembling, not even a little. 

"I'm sorry, Lord Cain – I should have—"

"I'm all right," Cain says.

(He shouldn't be – really – but he is.)

* * *

The first time Cain sees him, afterwards, it's like a whole new betrayal, all over again. And another when he speaks, and doesn't look at Cain. And another when he leaves, and doesn't heed Cain shouting his name – though Cain's pleas for him to return remain unvoiced. 

(He could have – ought to have – shot him in the museum and been done with it, but he couldn't, and he regrets it. Regrets that he, for the first time, didn't kill when he could've… and that some part of him still wants Riff to come back to him, all on his own.)

END


	6. Drink

**Title:** One Tequila, Two Tequila…  
**Author**: vanillavinegar  
**Prompt: **060 – Drink. (6/100)  
**Rating: **G for this particular prompt  
**Author's Notes/Disclaimer:** _Count Cain_ and all associated characters, settings, etc., belongs to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. This is a blatant case of taking the prompt too literally - and yes, there really is a Marquess of Hartington - apparently Cain runs in high social circles. :) Posting this early for two reasons: 1) in apology for the several unintentionally 'dry' weeks and 2) because the next fic probably won't be posted 'til next Monday. Sorry! Thanks to everyone who read the last one, and special thanks to Sanguinary Tears for reviewing!

Write a review, get a reply from the author – promise. :D

* * *

The room was quiet but for his master's rather heavy breathing. Riff stood patiently by the table, content to wait for his master's orders. His master himself was sitting in the only chair – well, perhaps 'sitting' was not the most apt description – was slumped in the only chair, head pillowed on his arms which lay on the table, face hidden, dark hair in a rather undignified tangle dangerously close to getting in his tea. Riff calmly moved the cup a bit farther from his master's head.

"Riff," said his master, in a tone more approaching a grunt than anything else.

"Sir?"

"Find whoever is ringing that blasted bell and poison them."

"Yes, sir."

There was a short pause. Riff idly arranged the teapot and his master's cup and saucer.

"Riff?"

"Sir?"

"The next time I decide to have a drinking contest with the sons of the Marquess of Hartington, poison _me_. Or lock me in my room, I don't care."

"Of course, sir."

END


	7. Broken

**Title:** Gone Away  
**Author**: vanillavinegar  
**Prompt: **071 – Broken. (7/100)  
**Rating:**G for this particular prompt  
**Author's Notes/Disclaimer:** _Count Cain_ and all associated characters, settings, etc., belongs to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. Title and summary from the song "Broken" by Seether, which also doesn't belong to me. Despite what you may be thinking, no spoilers (unless you haven't read "Sound of a Boy Hatching" from _Cain Saga_ Volume 2, from which coincidentally comes all the dialogue). Thanks to everyone who read the last one, and special thanks to Sanguinary Tears for reviewing!

Write a review, get a reply from the author – promise. :D

* * *

The baby bird is dead.

He stares at its body for a moment, as if trying to determine whether his surprise or lack thereof is more prevalent. His lack, he decides. Toys break often, pets disappear (his father claims that they run away). He had not even bothered to name the fragile little thing, though he had had been taking care of it for over a fortnight. It was almost as though he had not expected the bird to live—

It isn't until his back flares up in sudden pain that he realizes he has been backing away from the cage and has now run into a bedpost. Hissing quietly, he moves away, trying not to jerk too quickly, as experience has taught him that such an action will only hurt, not help.

He does not know what to do. Father has forbidden him from leaving the house without permission, even if only to the grounds, but he can't leave the poor little bird in its cage. He wipes the tears (caused by pain fresh and fresher as well as grief) from his cheeks absently as he considers. He exhales through his nose moodily, knowing that he is about to choose the more foolish option and unable to stop himself.

Soon, clad only in his nightshirt since he was unwilling to take the time to change, he is ghosting down the corridors, the bird's small body shrouded in one of his old handkerchiefs. He hopes his father is still smoking after his last punishment (this one more for routine than any individual sin); he does not care if he sees a servant, since _they_ doubtless will not notice _him_.

He is fortunate, and meets no one between his room and the gardens. There is a quiet, little-used glade he often goes to, not far from the path yet not close enough for a casual passerby to spot – it is to there he directs his steps. The route is so well known to him that he does not even observe the fair head momentarily visible through a gap in the bushes; nor does its owner see him.

He has not brought anything to dig with, but again in the interest of time and secrecy he opts to merely use his own hands. The body is small, after all, and even building a cairn for it is no difficult task. More problematically, tears threaten to turn the soil into mud between his fingers; he ignores this hindrance, however, and works steadily until his self-imposed duty is complete.

He is shaping the final burial mound when he hears a crackle behind him, as of someone pushing away the limbs of a bush.

For a moment, he freezes, like the rabbit catching sight of the circling hawk, before he summons up all of his aristocratic bearing. His father would not deign to sneak around so and none of the servants can see him. Unless a new tutor has unexpectedly arrived (unlikely, at such a late hour and in the gardens no less), it must be a robber, perhaps even a kidnapper or serial killer. He has often heard of such things, even if he has no personal experience with that sort.

All of this passes through his mind in a flash before, boldly, he turns to face the interloper, unconcernedly wiping at his wet face with the back of one dirty hand.

"Who are you?" he asks, sizing up the stunned stranger with one glance. Tall, no more than twenty-five, pale complexion, paler hair, blue eyes with curiosity and surprise but no aggression, good quality but by no means fine suit, thick book under one arm. Not how he would have imagined a criminal to look.

Pale Man starts, but replies without resentment. "I, uh… was just wondering what you were doing at this time of night."

He is staring at Cain's eyes.

Cain suppresses a frown of irritation and closes them, aware of the way the moonlight catches them and makes them gleam, catlike in the night. He replies matter-of-factly but retaining his haughtiness, "I dug a grave for my dead baby bird." Re-opening his eyes, Cain notices Pale Man's eyes flick back-and-forth between his own, and this time he cannot stifle his annoyance.

Quickly stepping toward Pale Man, Cain grabs his tie and gives it two sharp tugs. What does this man mean by striding into _his_ home and then acting as if Cain is some sort of display at a menagerie? "What are you staring at?" he snaps. Pale Man swallows audibly. "Is something wrong with my eyes?" Without waiting for an answer, he adds, "What book is that?" He releases Pale Man's tie and looks at him expectantly.

He has done well. Pale Man is caught off-guard – yet he recovers with admirable speed and stammers, "Uh… It's a medical book." He appears relieved to be back on familiar ground, conversationally speaking, and continues without invitation. "I was a student but my family lost their fortune so I had to leave school. I suppose I thought I might as well study on my own…" he trails off, looking almost morose, but a sudden thought has occurred to Cain and he is no longer paying attention.

Feeling the pain in his back give a sudden throb (certainly stirred by all of his recent quicker-than-was-wise movements), he says softly and swiftly, "You can… see me, can't you?" He stares at the Pale Man, watching surprise sharpen the stranger's gaze. He does not know why, but he feels as though Pale Man's response will be important. In years to come, Cain will never be certain why he had become so immediately dependent on a stranger's reply to such an odd question. It is almost as though, as he himself says, Riff instantly took the place of the baby bird in Cain's mind.

Now, however, as Pale Man says "What?" in stark confusion, Cain suddenly finds that he cannot breathe properly. He feels his head lighten, his vision spiral away, and a part of his semi-conscious mind braces for the jarring impact when his unresponsive body will hit the ground.

But there is no such impact. Even as his eyes roll back, Cain feels gentle yet surprisingly steady arms catch him. "Huh? Wait…" he hears dimly at the furthest reach of awareness, but he is too far gone to answer, to plead for the stranger not to leave him quite yet, or to wonder why the stranger's presence comforts him as dozens of now-vanished pets and scores of long-broken toys never did.

END


	8. Christmas

**Title:** The Idea  
**Author**: vanillavinegar  
**Prompt**: 092 – Christmas. (8/100)  
**Rating**: G for this particular prompt  
**Author's Notes/Disclaimer**: _Count Cain_ and all associated characters, settings, etc., belongs to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. Thanks to everyone who read the last one, and special thanks to Sanguinary Tears for reviewing! This is part one of two/three – haven't decided yet. Merry Christmas, if you celebrate, and happy holiday of choice/December if you don't. :)

Write a review, get a reply from the author – promise. :D

* * *

"Are you going out _again_, Brother?" Merry asked, her lips threatening to turn down into a pout. 

Cain allowed Riff to sweep his cloak over his shoulders and smiled crookedly at Merry, one hand toying with his hat. "I won't be gone long."

"You better not be. It might snow again," she warned, still frowning.

"I'll be back before supper," he replied lightly. Riff gave him an approving nod and opened the front door. Cain moved to walk out of the house when a quiet question stopped him.

"You promise?"

Cain turned and walked to crouch before Merry, who was looking down at the ground with sad eyes. "I promise," he said seriously.

Merry looked up at him through her eyelashes. "Shake on it?"

He held out his hand and she took it. "Before supper, or you can have all of your presents early."

Her face lit up and she hugged him tightly around the neck. "Thank you, Brother!"

He laughed softly as she dropped back down to the floor. "But you had better behave while I'm out."

She favored him with her most sweetly innocent face. "Don't I always?" Still at the door, Riff cleared his throat meaningfully and looked away when she glanced at him.

Cain smirked at his butler. "Oh, of course," he said agreeably. He perched his hat on his head as he straightened. "You might practice your piano while I'm out," he said as an afterthought, turning again. Merry stuck out her tongue in response, but he had already gone out the door.

As Riff closed it and began to bolt the locks, she said thoughtfully, "Riff?"

"Yes, Miss Merry?"

"What does Brother want?"

Riff paused as he turned from the door, a crease between his eyebrows. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Miss Merry."

Merry sighed. "For _Christmas_," she explained.

Riff's look lightened. "Ah," he said. He walked back into the main parlor, Merry trailing him like a bright little shadow, and slowly began to gather up dishes from the tea his master and mistress had just finished. "What would you like to give him?"

Merry crossed her arms with a huff. "That isn't how it works, Riff," she scolded. "I need to give him something _he_ would like, especially since we've never had Christmas together before. I can't count on him liking whatever I give him."

Riff, despite being of the opinion that whatever his adored little sister gave him his master would cherish, tried to think of ideas. "What about a book?" he offered.

"Brother has _loads_ of books. What if I gave him one he has already?"

Riff pursed his lips as he stacked the plates atop one another. His next thought had been 'poison', but of course that was a wildly inappropriate idea, not only for a gift in general but particularly for Miss Merry. "What if you drew him something?"

Merry handed him her empty teacup as she flopped into her chair and let her head drop to the table. "That's boring, Riff. And I can't draw that well." She sat up suddenly. "What if I told his fortune?"

"But you can do that at any time," Riff countered, drawn into the discussion despite himself.

Merry slumped down again. "That's true." She toyed with a teaspoon until Riff gently took it from her to put it with the other dishes. A pair of maids entered with curtsies and swept the tea things from the room at a nod from Riff. Merry kicked at the legs of her chair pensively until Riff frowned at her. She stopped and asked curiously, "What does Brother like?"

Riff tapped his fingers together, feeling as if he were undergoing an impromptu interrogation. "Well. Reading—" _about poisons_ "—parties—" _if he can flirt_ "—mysteries, science—"

"Mysteries?" Merry interrupted him.

"You know Master Cain likes to solve mysteries, Miss Merry."

Merry was sitting upright, a broad smile on her face. "Riff, that's it! It's _brilliant_!"

"What is, Miss Merry?"

_"We'll give Brother a mystery for Christmas!"_

**To be continued (sometime after Christmas)…**


	9. Children

**Title:** The Plot  
**Author**: vanillavinegar  
**Prompt: **028 – Children. (9/100)  
**Rating:** PG for this particular prompt (for violent themes)  
**Author's Notes/Disclaimer:** _Count Cain_ and all associated characters, settings, etc., belongs to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. Warning: this chapter contains a lot of (possibly mangled) French. If you know French and I've made some horrible mistake (due to online translators), please let me know so I can correct it. :) Part two of three – it WILL NOT make sense unless you've read the previous prompt/chapter ("The Idea" for prompt 'Christmas'). Thanks to everyone who read the last one, and special thanks to Sanguinary Tears for reviewing!

Write a review, get a reply from the author - promise. :D

* * *

When the bell rang at the Hargreaves' door, it took everyone by surprise. Cain, who had been scanning old newspapers (more out of boredom than actual curiosity), looked up sharply, a frown tugging at his mouth. He exchanged a glance with Riff, whose brows had been drawn down in shared uncertainty, whereupon the butler whirled and left the sitting room. Merriweather looked up from the puzzle she had been trying to put together for the past week. 

"Who could that be, Brother?" she asked, head tilted to one side. "One of the family here early for Christmas Eve?"

Cain shook his head. "They shouldn't need to come before tomorrow." _I certainly hope it isn't one of the family._

"I hope it is not the family," Merry sighed, unconsciously echoing her brother's thoughts. "Unless it's Uncle Neil, because he and Brother get on so well."

"Maybe it's Oscar," Cain suggested, mostly because her frowns made him laugh.

Merry barely had enough time to open her mouth with indignation before loud footsteps in the hall gave them both pause. A moment later, the door to their parlor was flung open and Riff reappeared, looking greatly harassed.

"Madame Adèle Girard to see you, milord," he announced breathlessly. Not a moment later, a young woman rushed past the butler and threw herself to the floor before Cain's chair.

He leapt to his feet in astonishment, but his instincts immediately took over and he knelt, taking up the lady's gloved hand soothingly. A distant part of his mind noted that her face was veiled, an odd accessory for such a young lady to wear indoors. "Madame, _calme vous-même (_calm yourself)," he said smoothly. "_Ce qui vous afflige_ (what ails you)?"

"_Pardonnez-moi, mon seigneur_ (pardon me, my lord)," his guest whispered pleadingly. "Forgive me, but I have been afraid – so afraid!"

"Of what, madame? _Vous êtes sûr ici_ (you are safe here)."

Behind them, Merry too had stood, her frown deepening, but Riff managed to catch her eye before she could say anything and interrupt her brother's 'flirtatious mode'. He threw her a wink and her eyes lit up. She hastily resumed her seat, smoothing her dress and practically bouncing with delight until she regained control of herself.

Madame Girard had been quietly and rather convulsively sobbing into a handkerchief she clutched desperately with one hand, her other still held by Cain. He waited patiently, unaware of (or perhaps merely ignoring) his audience, until she caught her breath again. "_Pardonnez-moi_," she repeated, looking up through the veil to meet his eyes with her own tearful ones. "I have been disgracing you."

"Not at all, madame."

"Lord Rochford, he told me you had discovered what happened to his sister when she disappeared, _non_? And my Henri, he is missing – I am afraid they have killed him, _mon seigneur_!" She collapsed again, wailing "Henri!" into her handkerchief.

At this renewed bout of tears, Cain, with a rather burdened expression, looked up at Riff imploringly. With his usual uncanny way of understanding his master, Riff helped him half-lead, half-carry Madame Girard to the settee, where she lay weakly until Riff offered her a tumbler with a thumb's length of brandy. She knocked it back professionally, causing Riff's eyebrows to leap up and Cain to smirk.

"I'm sure she needed it," Riff said softly with as much dignity as he could muster.

The brandy did seem to help, as Madame Girard's weeping soon subsided. She arranged herself into a more proper sitting position as Cain took a seat in his own armchair. He leaned forward and rested his chin on his clasped hands, eyes studying her intently as she dried her face. She was older than he had first taken her for – at least in her mid-twenties; her veil distorted most of her features, but he could tell that much. She was very slim, to the point where Cain thought a strong breeze could knock her over, and dressed all in black, even the veil – though it was a very fashionable black dress. _A widow,_ Cain surmised, _still young or vain enough to care about the latest fashions while also mourning her late husband._ His guess didn't explain the veil, though – at least the fact that she continued to wear it inside a building. But perhaps that was merely her way of grieving.

"Madame Girard, whenever you feel able, could you tell me your story, from the beginning?" he asked, still wearing his most sympathetic aristocrat face. Behind him, Merry endeavored to remain as unnoticed as she had been during the entire interview; she was interested to see how events would play out. Riff stood in his customary place next to his master's chair, his eyes too fixed on their visitor.

"_Naturellement, mon seigneur_ (of course, my lord)," she replied, sounding stronger than she had a few moments before. She cleared her throat and tossed her head; her veil shook violently but stayed in place. "As I told your _domestique_ (servant), my name is Adèle Girard, wife of the late Eric Girard. My husband had been a good friend of Lord Rochford's, and when he died two months ago Lord Rochford kindly offered to let us stay with his _famille_ (family) until I found a place of my own."

"Us, Madame?"

"Myself and my son – Henri." Her voice shook slightly. "He is six years old next week, _mon seigneur_. Yesterday, I took him for a walk in London, and when I was buying a hat at one shop he disappeared – like _that_!" She snapped her fingers before sniffling into her handkerchief again.

"I see," said Cain softly. "Henri could not have run off by himself, Madame?"

"I have told him _not_ to do so," she replied, somewhat indignantly. "_Jamais_ (never)! But he is only a child, and Henri _will_ have his own way when he wants it."

"Yes, children can be like that," Cain agreed. He glanced over to Merry quickly, as if to remind her he was perfectly aware of her presence, then turned back to Madame Girard.

"I do not think he did this time, though," she was continuing. "Not to leave for so long without telling me. He knows how to get home by himself, so I do not think he can, or he would have yesterday."

"Are you still at Lord Rochford's, Madame?"

"_Oui_. We were to move after Henri's birthday, but now I do not know what I shall do…" she trailed off.

"After you found that he was missing, what did you do?"

"I looked for him, _naturellement_. But I could not find him, and none of the shopkeepers had seen him – _hier ou aujourd'hui_ (yesterday or today). Then I spoke with the police, but they are _imbéciles, non_ (fools, no)? They think Henri may have gone with a friend – as if he would leave his _maman_ (mama) to worry like that! Then I remembered how Lord Rochford told me about you helping him – so I came to you, _mon seigneur_. He did not come himself because he was – _comment vous dites_ (how do you say)? On holiday? His family does not even know that Henri is missing!"

Cain nodded. "And who do you think has taken him, Madame? You said you were afraid 'they had killed him'."

She brought her handkerchief to her mouth again, her hand trembling. "I received a note, _mon seigneur_." She unclasped her purse and handed a scrap of paper to him. "Lord Rochford's servants found it nailed to his front door this morning."

Cain held it up to the light and scanned it quickly. It was written in a rather difficult-to-read scrawl: _We have him. If you do not wish him dead, you will bring it to the British Museum by six o'clock tonight._ He turned it over, but the reverse side was blank. "What is 'it', Madame Girard?"

"I do not know!" she exclaimed. "I am afraid they think I am someone I am not, or have something that I do not. If it was money, I would give them all I have, but…" She shrugged miserably. "I do not know what to do."

"You showed this to the police?" he asked sharply.

"_Oui_. But since I do not know what it means, and it was not mailed, they think it is a joke. They said it was obviously written by a child and does not refer to Henri at all."

"Hmm," was all Cain's reply. He studied the note for a moment longer before returning it. Madame Girard's hand shook a little as she smoothed it before replacing it in her purse. Cain studied the ceiling for a moment, his eyes half-hooded in thought. Without looking at her, he asked, "Madame Girard, with which hand does Henri write?"

He missed her startled look. "His right, _mon seigneur_."

"And the Rochfords?"

"All with their rights as well, I believe."

"And the note is not any of their writing – even Henri's?"

"_Non, mon seigneur_."

"Did the Rochfords' servants note the placement of the note on the door? Say, how high it was, whether it was close to the handle?"

"I… I believe they said it was at about their eye level."

"I see." Cain didn't speak for a few moments, then he suddenly stood with his customary lazy grace. "Shall we go look around this hat shop, Madame Girard?"

"Certainly, _mon seigneur_. But I have already asked them about Henri…"

"Yes, I am aware. We shan't be asking any more questions."

Behind her veil, the Frenchwoman looked bewildered, but readily followed a maid Riff instructed to order a carriage. When the two had left the room, Merry eagerly pounced on her brother.

"What shall we be looking for, Brother?"

"_We_ shall not be. You are staying here."

Merry watched Riff arrange her brother's cloak and felt a strong sense of _déjà vu_. "But Brother—"

"That's _final_, Merriweather."

"Fine!" Merry stormed from the room in high temper.

Cain hesitated a moment, then shook his head. "Perhaps I should buy her something to apologize while we're in town…"

"I could speak with her if you'd like, Lord Cain," Riff offered as he fetched his master's hat and cane.

"Oh, no, Riff," Cain said with a glint in his eyes. "You shall be going with me."

Suppressing the notion that his master knew everything his sister and himself had planned (sometimes those golden-green eyes could be far too knowing for Riff's comfort), Riff said laconically, "Shall I then, sir?"

"Indeed yes. It seems there's a kidnapper on the loose, after all. And make sure that my gun is loaded."

_

* * *

_Riff hated to criticize his master (unless, of course, his master genuinely needed it), but he simply could not see the point in lingering around the hat shop where the supposed crime had occurred. He freely admitted (silently and to himself) that his opinion was rather subjective, as he knew the secret to the mystery his master was now investigating, but that did not change the point that they weren't particularly _doing_ anything productive. His master was simply strolling up and down the street around the shop in question. 

Finally, however, even Cain seemed to tire of this occupation and began to throw questions at Madame Girard.

"Was it busier than this when you came with Henri?"

"Less, I should think."

"And what was Henri wearing?"

"A new suit Lord Rochford had bought him – dark green."

"Henri and Lord Rochford were friendly?"

"Oh, _oui, mon seigneur_ – Lord Rochford was always so obliging to Henri and myself."

"And Lady Rochford?"

"What about her?"

"Was she as obliging as Lord Rochford?"

"Ah, _cette femme_ (that woman)! She was not obliging to anyone, _Comte_ Hargreaves, least of all Henri. She was always insinuating the most unspeakably horrible things, about her husband, about myself, even about Eric! Have you ever met her, _mon seigneur_?"

"No, I have not."

"_Vous êtes fortunés_ (you are fortunate)."

"So it would appear."

At last Cain halted his meanderings and glanced at the sun. "Is it five o'clock, Riff?"

"A bit before, sir."

"Excellent. To the museum, then?"

"_Mais mon seigneur_ (but my lord) – we do not have—"

"Do not worry, Madame Girard." Cain flashed that brief, dangerous smile. "You asked for my help, did you not?"

As they walked back to the carriage, Madame Girard suddenly let out a very soft scream and clutched at Cain's arm faintly.

"Madame?"

"That man! He was here – he was here when Henri was taken!"

Cain snapped his head in the direction of her trembling finger and narrowed his eyes. She was pointing at a squirrelly-looking man, dressed in several layers of rather dirty clothes, topped off with a hat that concealed his hair and forehead, who stood at the head of an alleyway, watching the passersby nervously. As if noticing their combined stares, he suddenly looked up and then vanished quickly into the alley. Riff moved as if to chase him but Cain put up his hand.

"No. He'll be long gone before you can reach him."

"But if he has Henri, _mon seigneur_!"

"Then he will be at the museum, madame. Either way, we cannot do anything about him now." He patted her hand on his arm reassuringly and continued toward the carriage. She cast another longing glance at the alley but allowed him to tug her along, Riff following in their wake.

_

* * *

_"Unfortunately," Cain said as the three of them entered the museum at quarter after five, "whoever wrote your note was a good deal less than specific about where to meet. So I suggest that we wander around a bit and make our presence known. Perhaps they will find us." 

At first, he thought his plan was turning out rather well. Almost from the moment they had stepped foot in the museum he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffening as though someone were watching them. However, as they trekked through the natural history collections for the third time (it being now only a quarter until six o'clock, the designated time), he realized why there had been eyes on him.

"Merriweather Hargreaves!"

Merry turned quickly from her scrutiny of the nearest visitors. "Oh," she said in a rather soft, sheepish voice. "There you are. I lost you back in the ethnographies."

"What in blazes are you doing here?" Cain said angrily. He stalked toward her and fixed her with his most intense golden gaze. Forcing himself to lower his voice, he growled, "I told you to stay at home."

Merry had drawn herself up to her full height. "And I said that I wanted to come. You can't keep me locked up forever!"

"Apparently not," Cain retorted with a scowl. "How did you get here?"

"I gave your driver half a crown to take me on the driver's box with him, and then another half crown not to tell you." Merry shrugged, unable to keep the pride from her voice. "It wasn't that difficult."

"This is not a game, Merriweather," Cain snapped. He was vaguely aware that Riff and Madame Girard had come up behind them, far enough not to interrupt but close enough to keep away other potentially prying eyes. "There are dangerous people about."

"I know that," Merry sniffed. "That was why I wouldn't let you come by yourself."

"You are going home," Cain informed her, tone steely. "Now. Riff!"

At his call, the valet walked forward to join them. "My lord. Miss Merry."

"Take Merry back to the carriage. Do not let her out of your sight. I will be there shortly."

"But Lord Cain, I can't leave you—"

"You will and you are." As they both hesitated, Cain's temper boiled over. "_Now_!"

As the two of them walked away (Merry with her nose still stuck in the air pointedly, an air of noble indignation about her, and every line in Riff's body speaking of his reluctance), Cain suppressed a shiver and massaged the bridge of his nose. He still occasionally had nightmares of Merry being kidnapped by Dr. Disraeli after Lady Drew's death; he did not want her to be taken by Henri's captor as well. If he closed his eyes, he could picture a shadowy figure slowly stalking his innocent young sister…

He sighed and looked toward Madame Girard. Her gaze, however, had shifted beyond him.

"_Mon seigneur_… the man from the alley…"

Cain whirled to see, indeed, the same ragged man he had first laid eyes on an hour before. "Stay behind me, madame. And do not say a word!" he cautioned her in a whisper. Slowly, with forced casualness, he strolled toward the man, who had not yet seen them, Madame Girard anxiously following him. Just as he had nearly drawn level with the man, he abruptly looked up from the placard on fossils he had been reading and the area of his face visible beneath the hat turned white as a sheet as he apparently beheld them. Then he turned and fled once more.

Throwing caution to the winds, Cain ran after him, one hand going immediately to his gun. He heard a faint cry of "_Comte!_" behind him; evidently Madame Girard had not been able to keep up with his breakneck pace. He did not halt or even slow; all of his concentration was fixed on his fleeing quarry. He barely even noticed where the chase was leading him until he suddenly slammed through a door and found himself in a shadowed, narrow lane outside of the museum.

Keen eyes glanced around quickly, but the man was nowhere in sight. He pulled his gun out from his jacket anyway, unwilling to go unarmed in such a disreputable-appearing place. He had already noticed that one end of the passage led toward an empty-looking London street; his instincts, however, directed him toward the opposite end, whose destination was hidden in the shadows. He cautiously made his way in that direction, constantly scanning for movements in the dimly lit alleyway. Thus he was not at all taken aback when the figure he had pursued leapt from a doorway and removed a knife from under those dirty clothes.

Cain was faster; his gun was already raised and pointed at the figure. He fired.

**To be continued (sometime in the new year)…**


	10. Why?

**Title: **The Answer.  
**Author: **vanillavinegar  
**Prompt: **080 – Why? (10/100)  
**Rating: **PG for this particular prompt (for violent themes and brief language)  
**Author's Notes/Disclaimer: **_Count Cain_ and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. Part three of three - it WILL NOT make sense unless you've read part one ("The Idea" for prompt 'Christmas') and part two ("The Plan" for prompt 'Children'). Even if you have read the previous chapters, I encourage you to re-read them and refresh your memory. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to Sanguinary Tears, Veleda, shadowphantomness, and mizzradom for reviewing! If you're wondering about my long absence, a long explanation/apology is posted on my LJ (linked in my profile). My apologies to everyone who was left hanging, including Cain here.

Write a review, get a reply from the author - promise! If I haven't replied to your review from a previous chapter, please let me know and I will rectify that immediately!

* * *

Cain was more than experienced with firearms; even as he pulled the trigger of his pistol, he steadied his arm in preparation for the recoil. Thus he was completely taken aback when the gun not only did not recoil, but did not fire at all. His shock caused him to hesitate just long enough for the figure in tattered clothing to knock the useless gun from his hand and force him back against the wall, the knife at his throat.

Even in such a dangerous situation, with confusion slowing his reflexes, Cain was proud he could keep a mostly level head. He smiled into the face of his subjugator. "Ah, Lady Rochford. You are indeed right-handed."

The eyes of the woman before him widened; she chanced a quick look over her shoulder, spotting the hat that her sudden movements had dislodged from her head, before turning back to him with a sneer. "Earl Hargreaves. So you are as astute as your reputation suggests."

He bowed his head slightly. She moved the knife correspondingly, though curiously away from, rather than towards his throat. _Is she trying _not_ to hurt me?_ he wondered. _Odd behavior from an assailant._ "Astute enough to realize you have not been working alone," he replied, as a dark figure stepped through the door he had lately crashed through. "Madame Girard, however, is left-handed."

The widow stopped in front of him, standing next to the woman whom she had claimed to be little more than an adversary. "You are correct, _Comte_. You realized I wrote the note?"

"Naturally, madame," Cain answered, quite calmly for the situation, he believed. "The smudges on the paper could not have been caused by someone writing with their right hand. And I noticed when I held your hand in my sitting room that you had ink on the side of your left glove as though you had written something recently. I dare to guess that Henri is somewhere safe and unable to be located?"

"Of course. I would never allow him to be harmed."

"Not even for the sake of ransom and extortion?" Cain's mouth twisted into something more bitter than a smirk. "That was the eventual plan, yes? Convince Lord Rochford, once he returns from his holiday, that Henri – his illegitimate son, or so you would claim – could only be saved by giving his kidnappers vast sums of money? And a bit extra, certainly, to keep the scandal of his presumed paternity quiet."

"And why would I enter into such a scheme?" Lady Rochford whispered, knife still hovering over his throat. "It would do me little good if Adèle were to take so much money from my husband."

Cain clucked his tongue knowingly. "Forgive me, my lady, but your marital difficulties with his lordship are, frankly, common knowledge. A humiliation like the revelation of a bastard would give you grounds for a separation, and even if the scandal was not exposed, you and Madame Girard – with whom you are apparently on a first-name basis – could disappear with a tidy amount. After all, madame, you said yourself that you and Henri had to leave the Rochford residence next week; you cannot have been looking forward to the loss of the Rochford funds."

Lady Rochford and Madame Girard exchanged a look. "You seem to have it all solved quite nicely, Lord Earl."

"Yes," Cain murmured, shifting his gaze from one to the other. "The only thing I cannot understand is how you managed to unload my gun without my noticing."

"I'm afraid I am to blame for that, milord," came a new voice.

Cain's head jerked up; he hardly noticed that Lady Rochford had pulled her knife away from his throat. "Riff?" He felt an odd, cold sensation grip his heart as he recognized his butler walking down the alleyway. It was quickly replaced by the familiar burn of anger as his sister ran out from behind Riff and smiled at him. "What are you doing? I told you to wait for me at the carriage!"

"But the mystery is over, Brother!" Merry said brightly, rushing into his arms for a hug. Riff too looked pleased, and the two ladies both wore expressions of satisfaction and amusement. "Congratulations!" she squealed.

He hugged her back, once more bewildered. "Is anyone going to explain this to me?" he asked. Merry laughed and began.

_~-~-~-~-_

"You tried to shoot the actress?" Oscar howled with laughter. It was late in the evening on Christmas Day; the family had departed (at last), leaving only Cain, Merry, her persistent suitor, and the usual servants in the house. Oscar had finally pestered Cain into telling him the story of Merry's present, and Cain was still regretting it.

"I didn't know she was an actress," Cain said for the fourth time, "_and_ she had a knife on me!"

"But you said you knew the first one, this 'Madame Girard'."

Cain sighed, annoyed at being forced to repeat himself yet again. "Her name is Adèle Fournier. I met her briefly a few months back, looking into the murder of a fellow actress – that was why she had to wear the veil all of the time. 'Lady Rochford' is Blanche Allan, another actress. The real Lord and Lady Rochford were, of course, not involved."

"But their marriage _is_ the talk of London," Oscar pointed out. "Or at least their troubles are."

"And I _did_ help Lord Rochford find his sister last summer. That was why Merry and Riff picked them for this subterfuge."

"I prefer to think of it as a play," Merry said, glancing up from the book Cain had given her with a cheeky grin.

"A play that could have resulted in a closer shave than I like," Cain muttered, rubbing his neck. He was still slightly resentful that he had not seen through the deception, even though (as Merry had cheerfully reminded him) he had solved the mystery itself, which was the whole point.

"Miss Allan _was_ told not to harm you, sir, but I could not very well allow you to shoot her either," Riff said, appearing out of seemingly nowhere as usual and handing his master a glass of brandy.

"What are you reading, darling Merriweather?" Oscar asked, moving away from Cain to try to read over her shoulder. Merry angled the book so he couldn't see, and he attempted to persuade her into reading aloud. Cain turned back to his butler, letting the familiar sounds of their squabbling fade into the background.

"You quite scared me there for a moment, Riff," he commented, sipping at the brandy and looking at the fire broodingly.

"I do apologize, sir." Riff tilted his head, a smile teasing the corners of his lips. "But you cannot say you did not enjoy the mystery."

Cain did glance at him then, smirking. "You know me too well. You both do. But, Riff?"

"Lord Cain?"

"The next time Merry wants to get me a present, something less complicated will do."

"I will let her know, sir."

END


	11. Strangers

**Title**: Technology and Other Problems.  
**Author**: vanillavinegar  
**Prompt: **025 – Strangers. (11/100)  
**Rating:** PG for this particular prompt (for very brief language)  
**Author's Notes/Disclaimer:** _Count Cain_ and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. This chapter, by the way, is AU, as will be immediately apparent - a slight parody of my own recent computer woes. Not meant to be taken very seriously, despite Cain's melodrama. :) Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to Sanguinary Tears and Veleda for reviewing!

Write a review, get a reply from the author – promise. :D

* * *

"What do you _mean_, it's irreparable?" Cain shouted, dumbfounded and horrified. Images of what he had on his computer flashed in his mind – all of the work he'd saved on it since his years as an undergrad (he vividly remembered the week before graduation when he and a gang of the other graduating seniors had burned all of their old papers, exams, etc., but – being the slightly OCD person that he was – he had kept all of his on his hard drive, just in case), his carefully built up store of music, the pictures of her life that his little sister periodically e-mailed him while he was in grad school, all of the research for his thesis… His throat tightened and his eyes narrowed at the man standing before him, mustering all of his righteous indignation and attempting to send it through his pupils into the heart of this… this… incompetent white-haired man standing before him – despite all of the years of scientific study which informed him that this was quite impossible.

"I'm sorry, sir," said the man, and – truth be told – he did genuinely look apologetic. He also looked very uncomfortable, so perhaps the pupil idea had some merit after all. "We did try to recover your files, but there was an electrical short-out… if you'd like to purchase another hard drive, we can help you make a selection from—"

"No," Cain interrupted him, feeling drained and almost nauseous, wondering how he was going to explain this to his thesis advisor. "I – I suppose I'll just buy another one, then. That one was six years old, anyway." He had some of his files saved on his e-mail, certainly, and there were printouts of his rough draft – the rough draft from two months ago, which was half as long as the one that had been on his hard drive – and he might still have something saved on his flash drive, if he was lucky. His vision suddenly blurred and he clutched at the edge of the counter for support.

"Hey!" shouted the white-haired man, grabbing his elbow to steady him. "Deep breaths, easy!"

Cain switched his grip from the countertop – cheap plastic, anyway, probably would've broken like his laptop – to the man's comfortingly stable arm and tried to follow his advice. He didn't realize that the man had started up a quiet mantra of "In, out, in, out" until he noticed he was breathing perfectly in time with the chant. Slowly the world righted itself until the black corners on the edge of his vision faded away. He let go of the man's arm, feeling self-conscious, and scrubbed a hand over his face.

"You okay?" the man asked, concern in his eyes.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Cain muttered. "I just – my thesis was on there," he said, as if trying to excuse himself.

The man nodded but didn't look convinced. "You need to sit down," he said firmly, and he shooed Cain into a not entirely uncomfortable chair in front of the computer help desk, and personally loomed over him as Cain stretched out, trying not to think of all the files he had just permanently lost. Instead, he found himself contemplating the odd computer guy, who was still watching him worriedly. _Like a mother duck_, he thought, and smothered a smirk. Instead he just gave the man a questioning eyebrow. "Sorry," the man said, somewhat abashed, "I'm a med student, so…"

"A med student who works at tech support?"

"Have _you_ looked at the cost of med school recently?" the man countered, and this time Cain didn't hide his snort of amusement. The man looked relieved, and Cain wondered how much trouble he would have been in had a customer passed out and cracked his skull open on the linoleum. He stared at the tops of his sneakers for a few more minutes, then the computer guy/med student picked up his wrist and checked his pulse as he watched his watch. "I think you're okay to leave," he said after a moment. "But take it easy today, all right?"

Cain nodded and stood, shouldering the messenger bag he had let fall onto the floor as he did. "You got it, doc," he drawled, and the computer guy gave him a nod as he walked back behind his cheap plastic counter. With his hand on the knob, he impulsively turned back. "Hey, no hard feelings about my computer, right? It's not your fault the damn thing fried itself," he squinted at the man's nametag, "Riff."

The man gave him a slight smile. "Thanks," he looked down, at the report on his laptop Cain supposed, "Mr. …"

"It's Cain," he said, with a jerk of his chin.

"Cain," Riff finished. "Good luck with your thesis."

"Good luck dealing with the idiots who come and collapse in your office," Cain replied with a smirk, and he saw Riff stifle a laugh as he walked out of the door.

END


	12. Middles

**Title:** Halfway Point.  
**Author:** vanillavinegar  
**Prompt:** 002 – Middles. (12/100)  
**Rating:** G  
**Author's Notes/Disclaimer:** _Count Cain_ and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to Veleda and Sanguinary Tears for reviewing! :)

Write a review, get a response from the author – really! :D

_"Beginning are usually scary and endings are usually sad, but it's the middle that counts. You have to remember this when you find yourself at the beginning." -Sandra Bullock_

* * *

Cain is in the middle of a case. Riff knows this, even without his master telling him, because when Cain is in the middle of a case he eats, sleeps, and breathes the case, and does very little of the usual eating and sleeping (breathing, of course, is less easy for him to abstain from).

"It's only a hunch, but I'm almost certain it was Lord Irving," his master explains as his breakfast gets cold. He has not described the case to Riff, so the valet merely nods noncommittally and surreptitiously pushes his master's plate closer to him. Cain picks up a fork obediently, stabbing a piece of ham and then waving the fork around as he continues. "All I need is a bit of proof that's less circumstantial and I'll have him." He makes a particularly forceful jab in the air, then, and Riff watches in a sort of resigned despair as the ham flies off the fork and onto the tablecloth. Cain doesn't notice; he swallows the last of his tea hastily and leaps up from the table without having eaten a quarter of his food.

"But, sir–" Riff attempts, knowing even as he does so that it is a futile gesture.

"I've no time for breakfast, Riff, I need to talk with Mabel Aldridge – Lord Irving's sister, you know," Cain proclaims, jamming his hat onto his head. "I'll tell you all about it this evening!" he calls as he rushes out the door.

Riff surveys the mess of the table and sighs. A moment later, the door opens and Merriweather pokes her head in. "Good morning, Brother! Good morning, Riff!" she says cheerfully, then looks around in confusion. "Riff, where is Brother?"

"Off on another case, Miss Merry," Riff replies.

Merry looks put out for a moment before brightening again. "Then I suppose it's just me and you again this morning," she says, smiling.

Riff smiles back. "As it usually is," he responds, and Merry laughs, plopping down on her brother's abandoned chair and helping herself to his equally abandoned eggs.

END


	13. Who?

**Title:** Masquerade.  
**Author:** vanillavinegar  
**Prompt:** 076 – Who? (13/100)  
**Rating:** PG (for some dark themes)  
**Author's Notes/Disclaimer:** _Count Cain_ and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to Sanguinary Tears for reviewing! :) In slightly related news, after last chapter the hits on this story shot above 2,000. Wow. O_O I know this is short, but there'll be a more substantial update much sooner, I hope.

Write a review, get a response from the author – really! :D

* * *

Earl Cain Hargreaves is a man of varying levels of mystery, which is as he prefers it, really. To most of London society, he is the young playboy with glinting eyes about whom many fantastic rumors – both true and not – are spread. To a select few – mostly close friends and very few family – he is a solver of hideous crimes who often carelessly puts himself in harm's way for the sake of furthering knowledge and justice. To the members of Delilah, he is the Cardmaster's problematic son, who cannot be allowed to hinder their work yet cannot be touched without Alexis' express permission. To himself, he is the bloodstained product of incest who can never cleanse himself of sin; no matter how he tries, his eyes always stare back at him in a golden taunt.

Riff is really the only one able to see Cain for who he really is… and he keeps such things, as he does all his master's other secrets, to himself.

END


	14. Lovers

**Title:** Sitting, Waiting, Wishing.  
**Author:** vanillavinegar  
**Prompt:** 023 – Lovers. (14/100)  
**Rating:** G  
**Author's Notes/Disclaimer:** _Count Cain_ and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to Sanguinary Tears and Veleda for reviewing! This is our special Valentine's Day edition of _Generalities_, so please enjoy.  
**Warnings:** This prompt features both het and spoilers for _Godchild_ Volume 8. If you do not like, do not read. Next chapter we'll return to the usual Cain-Riff-Merry antics. :)

Write a review, get a response from the author – really! :D

* * *

It was a warm evening for early April in London, and the youth of that city were grateful for it. Tonight was, after all, the celebration of Lady Amelia Sutton's birthday, and only the top echelon of society had been invited. The dancing had begun as swiftly as was appropriate; the swirling dresses of the ladies provided a colorful backdrop to the party, the bright lights of the chandeliers above only accentuating the glittering beauty below. Soft conversation did not overwhelm the light, cheery tunes of the musicians, nor did the gentle clinking of glasses as toasts were raised to honor Lady Amelia. Overall, it was the epitome of a fashionable night for London's finest.

He had caught her eye while dancing with a girl he did not like. She had correctly read the frozen look of politeness on his face for what it was – the masking of a grimace – and he had seen her smirk. As soon as the dance was over, he escaped his partner's clutches as quickly and as civilly as he could, so he could find her again.

She was sitting in the chairs provided for resting dancers, one elegantly gloved hand holding a champagne flute, the other resting demurely in her lap. As he approached, still breathing heavily from the dance, she raised her head, blue eyes twinkling in mirth. "Good evening, my lord," she said mildly.

"My lady," he bowed, then took the seat beside her without waiting for an invitation. Between the two of them, there was never a need for such formality. "I have not seen you in almost two months, madam. How have you been?"

"Very well. I had business to attend to in Cornwall, but I finished it quickly so that I could attend the ball tonight."

"I did not – you did not tell me you would be here tonight."

"And disappoint Lady Amelia with my absence?" Her smile widened minutely. "Never."

"Oh, I know that you are friends with the lady – I simply – it is not your – you are not overly fond of such large balls, I know." He stumbled over his words, cursing his thick tongue. Why did he always make a fool of himself in front of her, of all people?

She glanced at him, smile sharpening into a familiar impish expression. "Ah, but how could I miss the opportunity to observe a night that will certainly provide gossip for months to come?" She nodded slightly towards a particular couple on the dance floor. "Why, just look at how Amelia is dancing with Roger Gray, and she betrothed to his brother, too!"

A chuckle escaped him at her imitation of the tone of many society women. "My lady, you know that the baron specifically asked his brother not to let his fiancé dance with anyone else while he was away in France."

"You know that and I know that, but I can guarantee you that there will be rumors of a more sinister nature for days."

"And how can you be so certain?" he asked, merriment once more relaxing his manner. "I have been attending balls such as these for far longer than you have been allowed, my lady, and I believe no such thing."

She blinked at him innocently. "As to that, my lord, perhaps I am simply a faster learner, or at least a more observant spectator, than you." He spluttered, torn between amusement and indignation. She ignored him and continued, "But it is quite easy to see from where these rumors will come. Is not the Lady Martha Brooke watching them dance?"

He tore his eyes from hers with some difficulty and glanced around. True to his companion's belief, he spotted Lady Martha, a dark haired girl with an unpleasant curl to her lips, standing with a gaggle of other young women, eyes clearly fixed on the hostess and her partner. Even as he scrutinized her, she turned to a girl next to her and made some harsh remark. The other girl's eyes widened, fan suddenly increasing its speed, as she whispered in the ears of the woman standing beside her in turn.

"And there they go," the lady next to him said with no little satisfaction.

He willingly returned his gaze to her. "I should think you would be more upset over such accusations as she is sure to make," he pointed out. "You and Lady Amelia are quite close."

She took a sip of her champagne nonchalantly. "We are, but Amelia and Edmund are also very much in love. He will not believe such rumors, she will not notice them – you know how naïve she can be, if good-hearted to a fault – and soon other groundless scandals will replace them. Why should I spoil her evening by rowing with Lady Martha?" She returned her attention to the dance floor, but he could see her glancing at him from the corner of her eye. "Besides, Lady Martha is only jealous. You know she had had her heart set on _the baron_ for months before his engagement was announced."

He stirred uneasily at the intentional stress in her words, even knowing that she referred to Edmund Gray. He would sooner attend a hundred balls attended only by affianced women than have a viper like Lady Martha after _him_. That trail of thought reminded him of why he had come to her in the first place. "And why are you not dancing, my lady? Afraid of gossip affecting you as well?"

She giggled, as he had hoped she might. "When have I ever let gossip affect me, my lord? But as for dancing, I have had little inclination for it this evening."

"And how long have you felt thus? I have never known you to be so fond of sitting when you could be doing a waltz instead."

Her long blonde hair hid the expression on her face from his searching eyes. "I cannot ask myself to dance, my lord – someone must first ask me. And it is most impolite for you to remind a lady that she has not been asked to dance!"

He shook his head, refusing to let such falsehoods distract him. "Do not lie to me. Merely while we have been speaking, I have seen at least half a dozen gentlemen looking at you as men look at women who have rejected their offers. I would be willing to guess that they are not the only ones who have asked you, and been refused, tonight." Her head was fully turned away from him, now, and her hand was clutching the stem of her glass so tightly it was trembling. He wondered how their conversation had become so serious so suddenly but he would not waver. He had to know.

"Perhaps I have not been asked by the right gentleman," she finally whispered.

He blinked, almost disbelieving his ears. There was a short pause before he realized that was the closest he would ever get to an invitation from her, then he rose from his chair and walked to stand before her. She stared into her glass, refusing to meet his eyes. He bowed. "May I have this next dance, Countess Hargreaves?"

Merriweather looked up at him, delight once more shining in her eyes. "I thought you would never ask, Baron Gabriel." She allowed him to help her stand, not objecting when he placed one hand at her waist to guide her to the dance floor.

She had, after all, been waiting all night for this.

END


	15. Orange

**Title:** The Pickwickians.  
**Author:** vanillavinegar  
**Prompt:** 012 – Orange (15/100)  
**Rating:** G (extreme silliness abounds)  
**Author's Notes/Disclaimer:** _Count Cain_ and all associated characters, settings, etc., belong to Yuki Kaori-sensei. The only profit I make from this work of fiction is my own satisfaction and, possibly, the enjoyment of others. As promised, here are some Hargreaves family antics. :) Thanks to everyone for reading, and special thanks to (anonymous) and suberXxXduperXxXfun machine for reviewing!

Write a review, get a response from the author – really! :D

* * *

The cat had been in his house for more than a week before Cain noticed.

It was all Merry's doing, of course. She had found the poor, starving thing (looking more like a bit of sodden fur than anything else) in an alley in London – well. London's alleys have always been full of the less fortunate, as his sister knew quite well, and she couldn't in good conscience leave the pitiful kitten to die on the streets.

Fortunately Riff had been accompanying her through town that rainy day, because he had the brilliant idea to take Merry's new hat from its box and put the shivering, dripping kitten inside instead. When the two of them showed up at the door, Merry grinning and Riff pointedly avoiding his gaze in a way that told Cain immediately that they were up to something, he had merely thought it was the state of Merry's new, completely drenched hat.

"But why on earth did you let her wear it home in the first place, Riff? In the rain?" he asked after Merry had disappeared upstairs with her ruined hat and perfectly dry hatbox.

"Your sister can be quite persuasive, m'lord," Riff replied, and left it at that. And Cain, who had all too often been coaxed into buying his sister things he had never intended to purchase, felt that this was an adequate explanation, and so he let it go.

The second clue he had had that something was amiss was the maids. Never had a week passed with so many of the maids going about the house giggling and whispering, not to mention pretending to be at work whenever he passed them despite the fact that he had seen them giggling and whispering together not ten seconds before. It made him feel quite paranoid – he often examined his reflection in mirrors, wondering if some chemical's fumes had streaked his face in different colors, or if perhaps something was stuck to his clothes. But he looked the same as always, he thought, avoiding his reflection's gaze and needlessly adjusting his collar. Perhaps it was a female thing.

Whatever it was, it had seemed to infect his sister, too. Merriweather had begun roaming the house at odd hours, looking around furtively as though she feared being followed, often with an excited grin upon her face. He often caught her coming from the kitchens with a small parcel of food in her hand, which she would quickly stuff into a pocket. "Hello, Brother!" she chirped, then darted off before he could speak a word.

Even Riff had taken to glancing over his shoulder anxiously as he walked the halls. Once he strode right past Cain without seeing him, then suddenly jumped when Cain called his name. The earl gave him a suspicious look before sweeping away, leaving his butler standing in the corridor with an expression that was somewhere between worried and exasperated.

Finally Cain could stand it no longer. He made his way up to his sister's room, knocking perfunctorily on the door before striding in without waiting for a reply. Merry and Riff turned to him hastily from where they had obviously been conferring in low tones; the identical shocked looks on their faces would have made him laugh any other time, when he was not wholly and entirely indignant. "I have had enough of secrets," he began, voice harsh, when suddenly an orange shape leapt from the top of Merry's dresser onto his head.

He did not scream. He did not so much as say a word as the shape – that he gradually realized was actually a very small, bright orange kitten – balanced expertly on top of his head and curled into his hair, purring audibly. Merry and Riff's expressions had changed from shocked to horrified – and, in Merry's case, slightly amused.

There was a very long moment of silence.

"I trust," Cain said, in as dignified a manner as he could muster, considering the cat perched comfortably on his head, "that you have some explanation for this."

Once they had told him the whole story – Merry not even attempting to hide her giggles, Riff with several grimaces – Cain sat down in one of the room's stuffed armchairs, carefully detaching the kitten from his hair and removing it to his lap, where it continued to purr contentedly. He stroked it, switching his gaze from one culprit to the other.

"And the maids were helping you to hide it, weren't they?"

Merry nodded. "They all thought Pickwick was adorable, too, Brother." She looked up at him pleadingly. "Please let me keep him! He's too little to survive on his own!"

"Pickwick. Hmm," Cain said thoughtfully, peering down at the tiny orange creature. "Is that why you didn't tell me about him, Merry? Because you thought I wouldn't let you keep him?" He raised one eyebrow at his butler, who had the grace to appear embarrassed.

"Well," said his sister, obviously startled, "yes. And I made Riff promise not to tell, either, so don't get angry with him, Brother," she added, somewhat fiercely.

Cain sighed. "Merry, if you want a pet, I'm not going to forbid you from having one."

"Oh." Merry blinked, then beamed. "Really? I may keep him?"

He smiled slightly. "You may." He gingerly plucked the cat from his lap, giving it to his sister with one hand before standing and walking to the door. "But please let me know the next time you decide to take in a stray," he continued, lips quirking into his familiar smirk as he left, shutting the door gently behind him.

Merry and Riff looked at each other, relief apparent on both their faces. "That went rather better than I expected," Merry said. Riff nodded in clear relief, and they both smiled when the muffled sounds of the earl's chuckles drifted in to them from the hall.

"Pickwick! Honestly!"

END


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